


Oh, Honey

by SerpentineJ



Series: Across The Universe [1]
Category: Psych, Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Shain?, This is all feriowind's fault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-16 22:05:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3504419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SerpentineJ/pseuds/SerpentineJ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Driving down a backwater road in Missouri one stormy afternoon, in-between his usual psychic bounty demon-hunting adventures, Shawn finds Cain. Cain, the goddamn Biblical figure. On a freaking bee farm, no less. He can’t believe his fucking luck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oh, Honey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [feriowind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/feriowind/gifts).



> NOTE: Please excuse me if this is a) trash or b) super inaccurate; I’m not Christian, nor an avid follower of Supernatural. (I basically just watched the Cain eps because of Omundson.) And I also know nothing about motorcycles or auto repairs.
> 
> This is all feriowind’s fault. And my insomnia, but that’s neither here nor there.

The rock music blares loudly through the headphones Shawn wears under his helmet, the roaring of his motorcycle drowned out by a heavy bass line and a kickass drum solo.

The weight of his shotgun is heavy on his back, bag of salt in the pocket of his satchel, knives strapped securely to his thigh, leather jacket protecting him from the wind buffeting his figure; the storm clouds are fast catching up behind him, and he glances in the small rearview mirror protruding from his handlebars, scowling and revving the engine.

“Goddamnit,” he curses, leaning forwards ever so slightly. Those clouds look nasty, dark and broiling, and the air is humid and heavy with the anticipation of a storm.

Electricity crackles through the air.

He’s not going to make it.

A small shack comes into view in the distance; slightly run-down, paint peeling off the shutters, roof shingles more than a little loose. He can sense a presence in the house, though with something dark hovering around it; another look at the swiftly advancing tempest licking his heels, though, makes up his mind.

Shawn pulls into the driveway, making sure to park it under enough of an overhang where it won’t get wet, and strides towards the door, a hand already on the weapons secured to his leg.

If there’s something bad in there, he’s killing it and taking the house.

The psychic knocks on the door, glancing, frustrated, at the charcoal clouds looming dangerously in the sky, directly above them now; it’s going to start pouring at any minute, and he’d rather not get struck by lightning, thank you very much.

The door swings open.

Shawn takes a step back.

~~~~~~

He draws his knives instantly, slipping into a defensive stance, eyes instantly hard and sharp, filled with danger and suspicion. 

“You have got to be kidding me.” Cain growls and grabs him by the shirt collar, holding him immobile in the time it would take most people to blink. “Who the hell are you?”

Shawn chokes as the demon lifts him up in the air by his neck, hands coming up to scrabble at the hands clutching his throat.

“Ack-“

Cain lets him down the slightest bit, just enough to allow him to respond.

“I-“

Shawn passes out.

~~~~~~

When Spencer comes to, he’s laid out on a (slightly uncomfortable) couch, sans shotgun, salt, and knives.

“What the-“ He scrambles upright, shaking his head to get his bearings, noticing the glass of water on the coffee table and the man in the other room.

Cain turns around. “Great.” He frowns. “You’re awake. Who the hell are you, and how did you know where to find me.”

Shawn thinks fast; without his weapons he’s helpless, and the demon can kill him in an instant with his bare hands if he wants to; his best bet is to play it down.

“Dude!” He says, going for nonchalance. “I had no idea you’d be here. I was run off the road by that storm.” The psychic gestures to the rain pelting the windows, running through the gutters and pattering on the roof.

Cain eyes him warily, walking towards him slowly, somehow predatorily. “Alright. Then who are you?”

Spencer stands up, ignoring the way it makes his head spin ever so slightly. “Shawn Spencer, psychic, at your service.” He bows.

The demon glares at him. “I know you’re a demon hunter. I saw the salt and the pentagram.” He pauses. “And the way you knew who I was… psychic, too, I’m guessing.”

“Hah.” The psychic chuckles; it doesn’t look like Cain plans on killing him, which is odd; he is the Father of Murder, after all. “Just about spot on, Cain, though I’m a demon bounty hunter. I go where the cash goes, not killing demons willy-nilly. Were you a detective in another life?”

Cain crosses his arms, still frowning. “Perhaps.” He responds.

~~~~~~

It’s been half and hour, and the silence is killing him.

Shawn taps his foot, looking around the living room for the hundredth time, watching his… host and reading the objects in the house.

The couch he’s sitting on is from a garage sale in the city a few dozen miles down that huge dusty road; cuckoo clock on the wall dug out of the trash in an apartment complex, some of the appliances in the kitchen stolen from… a Lowes? 

“So why don’t you have the mark?” He blurts out, because apparently his sense of self-preservation ha taken a working holiday. “I mean,” he backtracks, “I can sense it’s not on you, and I thought Lucifer gave it to you after you… well…”

“Killed my brother?” The demon laughs humorlessly, shelving the last of the jars of honey and turning towards his guest, silver in his hair and face pale from the cheap lightbulbs powered in the kitchen.

Spencer shrugged. “Well… yeah.”

Cain seats himself across from the other with a scowl and a sigh. “This storm isn’t going to let up for a while. I might as well tell you the story.”

~~~~~~

It goes on like this for a while, Cain telling the story of his sacrifice, Shawn listening with rapt attention (and it’s really, REALLY difficult to get his rapt attention, ask his 6th grade algebra teacher), eyes widening with every word.

“I’m retired now.” He finishes, eyes boring into Spencer’s, sending a clear message. “And when this storm blows through, you’re getting on that bike of yours and never coming back, and if you ever mention anything about finding me here, I will find you.” He glares. “And I will kill you, damn any oath that I made.”

Shawn is taken aback; the tale the demon had spun had been so… delicate, so oddly touching, at odds with the grizzled, growl-y, glaring man sat across from him. The sudden switch between characters is startling, as though he were an actor donning a role.

“Dude,” he says, holding his hands up in the universal “I come in peace” gesture, “I’m not gonna tip anyone off.” And he won’t; Cain’s aura showed no signs of deception during his entire story, so he’s either telling the truth or he’s so deep in his fantasy that even he believes his own story.

There’s a moment of tension.

“But seriously, a beekeeper?”

~~~~~~

After two hours, Shawn accepts Cain’s offer of tea and toast.

His honey is quite good, he learns.

~~~~~~

“Ah, shit!” The psychic shouts, kneeling in front of his bike’s engine. 

Cain is watching from the doorway. “Is the issue going to impede your departure?”

Shawn bites his lip. Either drive with a rain-drenched transmission and risk permanent damage to his bike and chance getting stranded on this godforsaken road, where the nearest city is probably a couple dozen miles away, or ask the Father of Murder for his help.

“Yeah.” He calls back, standing up and brushing off the front of his pants. “You wouldn’t happen to have a wrench, would you?”

~~~~~~

This whole situation is fairly bizarre.

They eat in silence, the only sounds the gentle hum of the bees in the beehives outside and the whistle of the wind in the trees, and Shawn can’t help but think Cain’s cooking must have been one of the things he worked on in his retirement; his honey-glazed salmon is absolutely delicious, and the salad is really fresh.

“When will the repairs on your motorcycle be finished?” Cain speaks up, glaring (is the man always frowning?) at him. “The crucifix in your pocket is making me slightly anxious, and I’d like you to be out of my house as soon as possible.”

Shawn blinks. “Oh, right.” He reaches into his jacket and fingers the silver charm, not taking it out due to the present company. “Sorry.”

~~~~~~

Three days into Shawn’s bike’s impromptu meltdown, he’s lying on his back in the driveway under his bike with a wrench and mechanical parts scattered around him, sweating despite the chill autumn breeze, motor oil staining his hands and darkening his white undershirt.

“Spencer.” The deep voice of his host calls from the doorway to his house. “There’s lunch if you want it.”

He sits up and nods, replying, “Thanks!”, still slightly perturbed by Cain’s willingness to feed him and lend him a room (“I am many things, Spencer,” Cain had muttered, “but rude is not one of them. You’re trapped here against both of our wills, but you won’t starve or freeze.”)

~~~~~~

When he returns to his motorcycle after making himself a sandwich with the things Cain had put out, Shawn discovers something… unsettling.

He barely has time to scramble away from his bike before the curse sets in, eating away at the metal of the insides of his bike, hissing and scratching with all the fury of a recently-deceased demon.

“Shit!”

~~~~~~

By the time he’s banished the demon’s curse (it had been set by a particularly nasty one he’d salted a week and a half prior), half of his bike’s innards are corrupted, twisted and melted and nearly unrecognizable.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Cain says, voice flat, eyebrows unimpressed.

Shawn scratches the back of his neck. The two of them have fallen into… something resembling a comfortable understanding; Cain supplies housing and food, and takes care of his bees, while Shawn fixes his bike and doesn’t kill him, but this may be a stretch for their questionable partnership.

“Unfortunately, I’m not, Cain-man.” He says, sighing. “A damn demon set a curse on my bike, apparently, before I killed the bastard.”

~~~~~~

It’s been a week. Shawn’s progress on his motorcycle has been practically nonexistent; most of the pipes will need to be replaced, as well as half the pistons in the engine, and part of the transmission. It’s a good thing he’d build this bike up from scratch more than once.

And then there’s Cain.

It’s odd, but Shawn has found himself becoming… if not fonder, then less irritated by the demon; he’s not like any demon he’s ever met. Changed by love, sworn off murder? That’s a story one doesn’t hear every day.

It’s intriguing, at the very least.

He’s intriguing.

~~~~~~

At two weeks in, Cain finally lets Shawn use his truck.

“You’re never going to finish those repairs without the proper tools.” He had growled, tossing the keys at his pseudo-guest. “If you try to leave with my car, I will hint you down and I will kill you. Plus,” he adds on, “I have all your weapons.”

Spencer concedes, taking the keys and counting the cash in his wallet. Due to his last few jobs, he should have enough.

~~~~~~

He returns two hours later.

~~~~~~

Mechanical repair work is tiring, the psychic finds; the endless fiddling and tweaking, working to remove the corrupted metal and refitting them with fresh ones, and he begins to poke around Cain’s things for something interesting to do.

ADD is a real bitch sometimes, he thinks.

“What are you doing?” The demon’s voice is low and dangerous, rumbling through the air like the thunder of the storm that stranded Shawn at his house. 

Spencer has lifted the screen off one of the beehives and is murmuring to the queen bee, pausing every so often to… listen?

He smiles and replaces the mesh. “Queen Victoria here says that the nectar you’re feeding her bees isn’t right. They want snapdragons, not daffodils.”

Cain scowls at him and pushes him away, donning his beekeeper’s hat and removing the screen again. “Shut up, Spencer.”

The phrase sounds oddly familiar. Shawn brushes it off.

~~~~~~

A month later, Shawn is beginning to really settle down in the house; he doesn’t work on his bike every day anymore, maybe every other day, but he spends more time visiting Cain’s bees or doing the grocery shopping (Cain doesn’t like tomatoes or pork, but he will eat pineapple with a little cajoling), and he has to keep tidy after himself or else Cain gets super annoyed when he leaves his shirts or jackets on the couch and goddamn, when did this all become about Cain?

~~~~~~

It’s been a month and a half, and the motorcycle is nearly repaired.

Shawn has noticed a lot of unsettling… feelings lately; he and Cain still eat together, and mealtimes have become something he looks forward to. It’s typically quiet, but the comfortable kind; the kind that typically comes after years of friendship, not an unspoken peace agreement and a month and a half of forced cohabitation.

He might even call them… friends, if it weren’t for the strange flutter in his stomach every time he catches Cain’s eyes on him, dark and unyielding. 

~~~~~~

His bike is fixed.

The successful rev of the engine makes Shawn whoop in delight; his beloved motorcycle is back in action! 

A second later, though, he catches Cain’s face through a window and his stomach falls.

“So it’s repaired.” The demon says, leaning out of the doorway.

The psychic grins sheepishly.

~~~~~~

Cain scowls.

It had been foolish.

The man had stayed for barely two months; what was that in the life of a demon? Absolutely nothing. 

He must have imagined all the side-glances, all the warm, comfortable meals shared, the fondness in that psychic’s voice when they chatted; the human was probably using his… attachment to stay alive.

Idiocy.

People didn’t stick around for people like him.

~~~~~~

The loud revving of an engine makes Cain look up from his dinner (he’d accidentally made enough for two people, and the other half was simmering on the stove), and he can’t quite quash the flutter of hope in his previously blackened heart.

As it turns out, he doesn’t need to.

“Spencer?” He frowns, disbelieving. “What are you doing here?”

Shawn parks his bike, kicking out the kickstand and approaches the house. “Er.”

He’s holding a pineapple. A pineapple with a red bow.

“Hi?”

They’re toe to toe now, in the doorway of his run-down house, lit by the pink-gold glow of the setting sun.

Cain blinks. “…hi.”

It’s unlike him, to be so… inarticulate, so childish, so… innocent-

His train of thought stutters to a stop when the psychic leans forwards, tilting his chin up, and suddenly they’re kissing.

Kissing.

Him.

As he relaxes and reciprocates, just the tiniest bit, he thinks Shawn does have a way of bringing back the innocence in him.

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: It’s 4:35 am. Augh. Again, all Cain/Shawn is completely feriowind’s fault.


End file.
